Dubliners

The introduction to my copy of Dubliners (Penguin, 2000) contains the following extract from a young Joyce's letter to Nora Barnacle shortly after the death of his mother in 1904, when he was 22:

"My mind rejects the whole present social order and Christianity - home, the recognised virtues, classes of life and religious doctrines. How could I like the idea of home? My home was simply a middle-class affair ruined by spendthrift habits which I have inherited. My mother was slowly killed, I think, by my father's ill-treatment, by years of trouble, and by my cynical frankness of conduct. When I looked on her face as she lay in her coffin - a face grey and wasted with cancer - I understood that I was looking on the face of a victim and I cursed the system which had made her a victim."
(Letters, II, 48)

The extract is a scathing denouncement of Joyce's upbringing, rife with youthful disillusionment and the horror of awaking to find that his life has not in fact been as he had believed it to be. The inherent pathos of domesticity seems like interesting ground for exploration...


"There was no hope for him this time: it was the third stroke. Night after night I had passed the house (it was vacation time) and studied the lighted square of window: and night after night I had found it lighted in the same way, faintly and evenly. If he was dead, I thought, I would see the reflection of candles on the darkened blind for I knew that two candles must be set at the head of a corpse."
The Sisters, p.1

New character of the voyeur, perhaps? Gazing into lit interiors is one of the greatest pleasures of the urban experience...

"I waited until his monologue paused again. Then I stood up abruptly. Lest I should betray my agitation I delayed a few moments pretending to fix my shoe properly and then, saying that I was obliged to go, I bade him good day. I went up the slope calmly but my heart was beating quickly with fear that he would seize me by the ankles. When I reached the top of the slope I turned round and, without looking at him, called loudly across the field:
- Murphy!
My voice had an accent of forced bravery in it and I was ashamed of my paltry stratagem. I had to call the name again before Mahony saw me and hallooed in answer. How my heart beat as he came running across the field to me! He ran as if to bring me aid."
An Encounter, p.20

This scene comes after two young boys skipping school encounter an eccentric older man in a field in Ringsend. The situation is every bit as suspicious as it sounds; the boys are uncomfortable in his presence and, at the beginning of this extract, the narrator decides to break away from the conversation. This piece reminded of the trepidation and fear that can characterise encounters with strangers, a quintessential part of an urban existence, and something which we have overlooked thus far.

"That night the city wore the mask of a capital. The five young men strolled along Stephen's Green in a faint cloud of aromatic smoke. They talked loudly and gaily and their cloaks dangled from their shoulders. The people made way for them."
After the Race, p.39

Interesting for a couple of reasons. Really like the description of Dublin as wearing "the mask of a capital", and, although my footnotes suggest that this refers to the fact that the country was, at this time, governed from London rather than Dublin, I prefer to associate it with those brief moments where Limerick feels superficially like "a real city". The characters are also relevant for our purposes; perhaps this kind of extroversion (at night, in groups) is what we have been thinking of?




Image via http://www.flickr.com/photos/bg/4365402771/. Interestingly, it formed part of a physically disconnected, loosely defined virtual reading group's response to the stories. More info on the project here: http://motleyread.posterous.com/reading-joyces-dubliners-join-in-the-fun